


A Severe Vision Problem

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:05:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15093572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Craig Garrison considered himself a well-educated, highly disciplined, logical, intelligent military officer.  Long ago he realized that most situations can be, if not resolved, then at least understood by a detailed examination of all available evidence; he'd had an excellent teacher in that.  So when a situation, a problem, arises, one he just can't quite get a grip on by any other means, he decided to go back to the basics, as taught him by one Professor Ignatius J. Milford, one of the smartest men he'd ever met.  He did not expect to be told by the professor himself, most sternly, "Craig, my dear boy, I do hate to point out the obvious, but it appears you have a most severe vision problem.  You really need to do something about that."





	A Severe Vision Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Wartime, fairly early on.

It was obvious he was doing something wrong. Well, that he wasn't doing something right. Or maybe THAT wasn't even it. Still, ever since he'd taken on this job, things felt 'off' somehow. He had this team, {"Team??? In your DREAMS, Garrison! That's wishful thinking for sure! They are a lot of things, but hardly a team!"}, four men, totally different from each other except in their skills and their criminal nature. He was working with British soldiers, which of course he had in the past, but not commanding them before, just working alongside. He was in an insular little English village with their own ways and customs and personalities, with a largeish mixed military base within less than an hour's reach. And London HQ was a slightly surreal experience in and of itself, a wild mix of egos and personalities and agendas and expectations.

He was having a hell of a time getting his impressions figured out, making it all work for him, and he HAD to get that done in order to get the job done. And he HAD to get them figured out, and he couldn't appear to be fumbling around in the doing. No, he had to maintain the crisp, clear, 'I'm In Charge, I Know What I'm Doing' demeanor he'd been told was an essential part of being an officer.

Well, HQ might be too big a job, he might never get his mind wrapped around all the hundreds of people up there. Though he had to make the attempt of course, especially those he'd be working for, with, the ones he had to cooperate with in order to do the job he'd been given.

But the men he was to command? Those he HAD to get a handle on, HAD to understand, know what buttons, what trigger points each had, their strengths and weaknesses, how to use all that to the best advantage of the mission. He had their files, knew there existed some valuable strengths, a hell of a lot of weaknesses, but the rest was something he had to learn on his own.

The young American officer nodded briskly to himself, said it out loud to reinforce it to himself. "Ok, Garrison. So, that's the plan. Figure out these four men, maybe along with the Sergeant Major. Get that all clear, then you can worry about the locals. The rest can follow. Hell, looks like they keep changing the Handlers up in London anyway; let that come as it will, if any stick around long enough." So, he'd spent any available time in that endeavor, knowing determination would make all the difference in his success.

** 

It shouldn't have been so difficult, but it was. He knew he had to do something, anything to get a handle on the situation. Just WHY . . . HOW . . . WHAT . . .. This going around in circles wasn't helping anyone and was driving him nuts. And then Garrison stopped.

"What was it that Professor Milford told us, when he was giving that totally odd lesson that had us all so puzzled, then frustrated, and finally laughing as reality sat in? What was it . . .?" He let his mind drift, the pencil in his hand tapping against the deskpad. 

The elderly Professor teaching that oddly titled elective course had turned out to be the smartest man the young Craig Garrison had ever met, and he'd taken the opportunity to learn from him while he had the chance, soaked up every word.

The old man, in his last year of teaching before his retirement, had gladly become a mentor to the eager young man, though Milford had remarked in frustration to his friends on more than one occasion, "the boy has such potential, but stubborn, oh so stubborn! And far too willing to let others make his determinations for him, especially those military officers in charge of that part of the training. If they tell the lads something is orange, no matter it is clearly green, or even a possibility that it might be an orange net covering a blue tower, it's difficult to get Craig to see it as it is, rather than how the military TELLS him it is, ORANGE. With some of the others it's hardly worth the effort to train them to see more, but with Craig, I've made it a point to try and perhaps shift him out of that a little; there's simply too much potential there to let himself limit himself that way. But stubborn, so very stubborn!"

He remembered the Professor standing there, smoldering pipe in his hand, scent of tobacco in the air, elderly Bostonian that he was, telling the classroom, "I have just finished grading your midterm papers and I have to say I am quite disappointed. To come up with a satisfactory answer, it is necessary that you SEE, see and acknowledge, what the question really is. It occurs to me that many of you seem to have a severe vision problem, not just with the eyes, but also with the mind."

The students looked at each other, wondering how he'd come to that conclusion, or even what the hell he meant by it, from a twenty page paper on Art and Military Tactics, not that many had figured out the connection there in the first place. Still, the class was held at a decent hour, not like some, and old Milford was a decent sort, not a total ass like Professor Littman. 

"Here, consider, if you will," motioning with his long aristocratic hand toward the doorway of the lecture room, and an elderly woman moved slowly, seemingly painfully forward to stand beside the professor.

"This is Mrs., well, let's just call her Mrs. Complex," and the students laughed. The professor laughed along with them.

"Think of Mrs. Complex as a piece of art," and that got a few snickers, "or perhaps, an enemy agent. In either case, we need a description of Mrs. Complex, a very good one. Now, who will be the first to describe Mrs. Complex to me? I expect a sincere effort here," he chided them, as some little remarks and asides came from various directions.

A few ventured forth with the color of the dress, the style of the hat, approximate height and so forth. He stopped them with an upheld hand, "ah, ah. I asked that you describe Mrs. Complex, not tell me she has on a blue dress. Believe it or not, I could actually tell that, and I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't quite capable of changing that blue dress for a green one should it become necessary. How would you be able to identify her then?"

Finally one brave lad spoke up, "but, how are we supposed to describe her? She hasn't said a word, so we don't know her voice. She has so many clothes on, and with the hat and the veils and that coat over her arm and all the rest, we can't SEE her! That dress is so long, we can't even tell how tall she might be since we can't see the heels on her shoes!"

And Professor Milford smiled and nodded, and said approvingly, "exactly, Mr. Whitman, exactly. But, if we make a note of her coat, remove it, mentally if you will, at least, set it aside - though for illustration purposes we will actually do the deed," and he did so, taking the draped coat from the woman's arm and laying it on a chair.

"Let's be sure to list them, or draw them, everything we remove, set aside, somehow make a note of what WAS there obscuring our vision," waiting til the class started to do so.

"And then perhaps, this little article," reaching for one of the long shawls," doing the same.

"Later, you can mentally add back what was removed, to see when your view began to shift, when reality became skewed." Piece by piece all the accessories were removed and set aside.

And if the class roared with laughter when the final concealing hat with veiling was removed to reveal a grinning David Stropman, Senior Teaching Assistant, at least most of them had started to get the point the Professor Milford was trying to make.

"If a question, a problem or situation seems too complex, try taking it apart into its individual components. Diagram it as if it were a complex sentence. Line out each particle in bullet points. If you draw or paint, try putting each bit on paper, perhaps even on translucent paper and then overlaying the parts to get a better look at the whole. And do not let your logic, your reasoning mind betray you."

"You must use MORE than your reasoning mind; after all, it lies quite frequently, has its own stubborn ideas of what is and is not possible; is often subject to manipulation from others; accordingly it can deceive you quite badly. No, you must do much more, eliminate the superfluous, the distractions, and look for the underlying truth. Remember what Arthur Conan Doyle said, "once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

Garrison had decided long ago that Professor Milford was one of the smartest men he'd ever met, so now he decided to take the old man's advice. He'd already tried lists, though maybe not in the right way since he seemed to basically just be repeating what was in those personnel files. But for this, he dug out that sketchbook he'd picked up in London, not that he'd done any serious work in years. Still, at one time he was considered pretty good, so it was worth a try. 

**

To Garrison's relief, the sketches actually did help. Whether it was the actual sketching itself, having something he could study and ponder over later, all the stray notes, observations he'd find himself making around the edges, or whether it was the intense attention he had to give each subject in doing the sketches, he didn't know. But it did help.

He was on his second sketchbook now, heading toward his third. He had sketches of each of his four men as well as the Sergeant Major. He had a few of the young woman from the cottage down the way, since she was interacting with his team more and more, his team, his sister, particularly his rascal of a pickpocket. Garrison wasn't so sure that was a good idea, any of it, though she had been more than helpful in various, sometimes outre ways, but for now, his focus was elsewhere.

He'd been tempted by Mrs. Wilson, the village laundress; she had such an interesting face; and Ben Miller, the constable, Garrison's fingers itched to try his attractively homely features, but decided he'd not give himself that liberty til he got the current job done. That was pleasure, this was business.

So, he sketched, in private, not where anyone could see him; sketched, and studied, dissected his work, consciously removed certain aspects to let him see what lay beneath, and he was feeling much better about things. Sometimes he could almost feel the Professor at his shoulder, pointing out some little thing he'd missed, offering encouragement, urging him to 'look closer, probe deeper, Craig! That's good, but you're missing pieces. The picture isn't complete without all the pieces!"

Sometimes the presence would give him a stern 'tsk tsk! That's what everyone ELSE sees, Craig, but is that what is THERE? Is there more? Is what THEY see an illusion, a mask, a disguise? Damn it, boy! You need to see what truly IS there or not there, not what someone else SAYS is or is not there! You're too smart for that, Craig. Open your eyes, your mind, your heart and LOOK!"

Sometimes Garrison almost felt a ghostly 'thump!' on the back of his head, that sure sign of frustration Milford would occasionally let loose with when Craig was being particularly obtuse. Sometimes he'd end up rubbing his head afterwards, wondering at how real that familiar slap had felt.

The few missions they'd run had helped; he was gaining more confidence in the guys, they were gaining confidence in each other, maybe in him too. He learned more and more - that Actor really WAS a snob of the first degree, loved to hear himself pontificate, but that some of that attitude was just to goad the others, his way of amusing himself, perhaps even of entertaining them. {"Now wasn't that an odd thought?"} Learned that the tall con man was extremely intelligent, abundantly talented and could run a con every bit as well as he thought he could, and was a sound and reliable second-in-command.

Chief, he'd learned the stoic, tightly controlled outside hid an intelligent if uneducated young man, one who expected your fist upside his jaw or the back of your hand for no reason and the only surprise he showed was when he didn't get it. {"There is a young man worth helping along, helping him grow and learn. So much potential!"} unknowingly repeating what Professor Milford had said about one young Craig Garrison.

Casino, rough, brusque; highly competent in his field, had a few other skills not mentioned in the file, but ones Garrison and the team could certainly use. Garrison had been cautious at first, the man seemed the bullying sort in his behavior in the Common Room and elsewhere - except that a lot of that, Garrison could see now, seemingly was for show as well. Garrison was beginning to see below that, see how women and kids seemed to gravitate to the rough-talking man, how careful he was with them, being kind but trying not to let anyone else catch him at it. Noticed that when the safecracker got into a fight at the bar or on the job, he was deadly with his fists, but when he and Goniff got into a quarrel, somehow, those fists, if they didn't miss their mark entirely, they did a hell of a lot less damage than you'd expect. At first Garrison thought the smaller man just moved too quickly, was too agile in getting out of the way, but now, now he had his doubts.

Sergeant Major hadn't taken long at all, though with plenty of surprises of his own - career military, but somehow far more flexible than you would think from that background. More intelligent than he had been given scope for, but with an intelligence Garrison was starting to rely on in unexpected ways. A regard for discipline tempered with a deep-seated kindness that helped immeasurably in this very odd situation here at the Mansion. Yes, with Professor Milford's help and guidance, Garrison was finally getting a good grasp on things. Except . . .

**

"Damn it, Goniff! You are going to drive me stark raving mad!"

Craig Garrison groaned out loud, running his hands through his already messed up hair. This latest report from Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins, added to that little missive from Constable Ben Miller, taken in conjunction with the slightly apologetic but firm note from Jake, the bartender down at The Doves - how could one small man create so much utter confusion and mayhem? Not to mention breakage!!!

Garrison had been sitting there for most of the morning, handling various problems, writing up reports, but somehow always coming back to one cheeky, impertinent, totally exasperating Cockney pickpocket. It wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, except every time Garrison read over those accounts of Goniff's recent activities, he found himself snickering to himself. The last time, he actually started laughing so hard he choked; he had to get a glass of water to help himself stop.

He needed to administer a severe dressing-down, obviously, and soon, but not til he got over this ridiculous urge to laugh! Even thinking of that expression he was sure to get, the downcast face, upturned hopeful eyes, wide mouth pouting, but twitching just a little as if holding back a laugh - no, he'd have to wait just a bit before he hauled the man over the coals. It just ruined the whole 'strict discipline' appearance if the one delivering the lecture started snickering!

Twice he'd gotten up, made his way to the window to look down at the area below. The first time, Goniff was standing toe to toe with Gil Rawlins, head cocked back, arguing fervently with the outraged Sergeant Major about something. No, Garrison couldn't hear the words, even the voices, from where he was, but the body language and expressions were enough to bring a grin to the Lieutenant's face. Once he realized that, he replaced it with a stern, disapproving frown, of course.

The second time, there was the little Cockney, sitting crosslegged on one of the big stone figures scattered about the courtyard, arms crossed over his chest, leaning over and heckling Casino down below, making sure to stay just out of reach. Garrison let out a snort of amusement, {"almost like an illustration from 'Alice in Wonderland!'"}, then dug out that stern military officer's frown once again and went back to his reports. 

On one occasion, he'd actually gone to the French doors and out onto the stonework, to watch the interplay more closely. He'd been firmly of the intention to have a few sharp words with the Englishman about fooling around instead of sticking with the program. In fact, he'd had his mouth open to do exactly that, to give a hearty yell 'Goniff, get with the damned program', but before he could utter a sound, the smaller man had seemed to sense his presence, looked over in his direction, his eyes had crinkled at the corners, and that smile came to that amazingly mobile face, and Garrison forgot what he was so annoyed at. It didn't help when he realized he was smiling back, right into those hazy blue eyes that just invited him to 'come and join in the fun', {"like a damned idiot! What the hell is wrong with me??!}. He located that frown again, plastered it over his face, turned crisply around, went back inside and grimly, determinedly got started on the reports once again. Where he found his attention going to that note from Jake, and that snort of laughter surprised him again. His hand pushed the reports aside, and he sighed, reached down to pull out his sketchbook.

"Maybe this time . . ."

**

Now, weeks later, he sat in the same spot, looking down at the latest sketch, groaning in utter frustration. This was supposed to make things more clear, not confuse him even more. Portraiture was supposed to give you insights into a person's character, as well as point out anything that caught your special attention. This was supposed to help him figure out just what it was about Goniff's smiles and his eyes, some of the mischief he could get up to, that could make Garrison smile at the most unexpected times. Taking it logically, the off-the-wall pickpocket should really just drive him nuts. And sometimes he did. Just, sometimes he didn't, and now, he wasn't sure which is worse.

So he'd tried, page after page after page, sometimes a full-figure or action pose, but eventually limiting himself just to Goniff's face, sometimes even just his eyes. There were those two other sketch books, containing character studies of Actor, Casino, Chief, Sergeant Major, Meghada, some alone, some with Goniff, of course, and they had helped with the others, but not with Goniff, so he'd started a new one just for his resident problem. 

Now, he went back through his sketch books just with Goniff alone. Yes, books, not just one. He started with the face he'd seen back in that room back at Sing Sing, where the Parole Board was meeting - the nervousness, the hope, the despair, then the almost bitter determination - and again that face in the Warden's office, such an odd mixture of emotions in those eyes. How could one face, one set of eyes hold so many emotions in such close proximity? He continued on to the lax, almost translucent face in the car, driving off to their next stop to Attica - almost like a waxwork, not a real person.

Somehow, the more he worked, the less he understood. He moved forward a few pages, a few more, then tossed the sketchbook to the side and picked up another. Here was Goniff, that huge 'oops' look on his face as Garrison caught him with that hat full of money that first mission out. Garrison still wasn't sure he hadn't been conned that time, maybe was being tested. Goniff, arguing with the Sergeant Major. There, Goniff getting caught by the Sister teaching her charges how to pick a pocket. Goniff, his eyes filled with wonder at some story Chief or Meghada is telling; this one, his face beaming with delight when she delivered a basket of fresh treats. Here, Goniff's face as he moved into the line of fire from that German patrol to give Garrison and the guys their chance to survive, icy cold determination on a surprisingly hard and uncompromising face. This one, Goniff, barely conscious, those blue eyes open only a sliver, laying in that barn after taking three bullets for them. This, his face as he stood in front of that firing squad, scared to death, but trusting in Garrison to get him out of there alive, somehow showing his acceptance if that wasn't possible. Goniff, teasing Casino; Goniff encouraging Chief, Goniff. . . Here, another view, another, another. 

"Damn it, Professor Milford! This was supposed to help!"

He ran his fingers through his already disarranged blond hair and dropped his head back against the back of the chair. The movement, the smell of pipe tobacco and a familiar Bostonian-accented voice caught his attention, and he opened his weary green eyes to see the elderly professor standing in front of him, smiling at him just as he always did, kindly, but always urging him to do better, learn more, use his talents to their utmost, never allowing him to take the easy way out. 

"Craig, my dear boy, I do hate to point out the obvious, but it appears I must. It would appear you have a severe vision problem. You really must do something about that." Milford took a long draw on that pipe, smiling with pleasure as he did so. He exhaled, blowing a smoke ring with some air of amused satisfaction, and reached out to tap one finger against what sat in front of Garrison.

"One sketch book is a character study. Two sketch books, well, that could be the preliminary work for a detailed portrait. How many sketch books do you have there? I can see seven from where I am standing, perhaps more. My boy, have you heard the word 'obsession'?" 

The old man had a kind and knowing smile on his face, and a warm chuckle entered his voice now.

"Or is that the proper word? Perhaps there is another better suited? You need to think on that; self-knowledge is a highly valuable thing too, you know. Of course, you were always a stubborn one; knowing you, you will have to come to that realization on your own. Remember what I always said, finding the correct answer requires you to see, see and acknowledge what the question really is. Or, to quote Arthur Conan Doyle," and Craig Garrison recited the words from memory right along with the elderly man, "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbably, must be the truth." The old man nodded, pleased that his words had been remembered. 

"Now, Craig, perhaps you need to think about that as well. Of course, figuring out a situation, the reality, that is really the easier part, isn't it? What follows is the real challenge - figuring out what to DO about it. And, my dear boy, you mustn't delay too long; final exams are coming up, rather sooner than you might expect, and more depends on this than you would ever imagine."

He stared at the gently smiling Professor Milford, as the elderly man, dead these last several years, faded from view, leaving the aroma of pipe tobacco lingering in the air. Looking down at the stack of sketch books, eight actually, not seven, provided you didn't count the one he had upstairs on his bedside table, he groaned again.

"Damn it, Goniff. You are going to drive me stark raving mad!!"

And Professor Ignatius J. Milford, still looking on although rather less visible, shook his head and sighed heavily, "just like I always said, stubborn, so very, very stubborn! Still, an intelligent boy. Surely he'll figure it all out in time."


End file.
